The Vampire Diaries: Damon's Grey Sky
by Lucretia Debrev
Summary: This story is supposed to describe Damon's experience, in the course of two days, in the trenches in World War I... Beneath the stains of time The feelings disappear You are someone else, I am still right here... -Lyrics from the song Hurt by Johnny Cash.


Damn, Damon thought.

He was tired, he was soaked in sweat. His feet ached as if he hadn't rested in a thousand years.

_This damn mud. I've got no damn footing. Why did _trenches _have to be our shields? Who's bright idea was that? _

Damon suddenly felt dizzy and leaned against the mud wall.

_I can't keep doing this. I'm giving more blood then I'm drinking. I haven't fed in nearly a week. And frankly, I need water. Even vampires need water. _

But no. There was no time. Another grenaded just went off, dirt and mud stung his eyes. It didn't hit him directly but it was a few yards away and screams of men in pain and agony filled Damon's ears, drawing him to them.

Damon coughed and called out, "Anyone….here? Can anyone hear me?"

Damon's ears were still ringing from the blast and he wasn't sure if, over all that ringing, anyone could hear _him_.

"Here! Here! Help me please! My leg! It's...it's gone!"

Damon stumbled towards the voice.

"Okay, calm down. There's a station of nurses and doctors down the way. Give me your hand we'll go there together, ok?"

The man didn't respond for a moment.

"We are going go to the hospital tent, _okay_?"

"Okay-yes-ok"

Damon helped him up as best he could and slung the man's arm around his shoulder but quickly realized that wouldn't work because they couldn't very well _hop_ to the nurses tent before the man died.

_Oh Jesus. This guy is going to die in a matter of minutes with the blood he's losing….he wasn't kidding-his leg is gone. _

"Ok, private. What's your name?"

"I'm David White. You?"

"Damon Sal-Crowley….How long have you been in this hell hole, David?"

"About two months. You?"

At first Damon wasn't sure whether or not he should tell David how long he'd been at war. He didn't want to belittle the man's suffering in the trenches, but he realized that might be just what the man needed. If David was too dramatic and lost all hope, he'd die from more than blood loss.

"Two years."

"Seriously? Damn, you've been here a while, haven't ya?"

"Yeah. Just one adventure after another."

"Yeah, I'll say….Damon?"

"Yeah?"

"You been here a while. Tell me, am I going to die?"

"No. Not if we get you to the hospital tent."

David began to laugh so much he was hard to balance.

"What's so funny?" Damon asked, trying to stay calm.

"It's just, I've lost like 10 pounds since I joined the army, but not a lot, and you're carrying me like I weigh nothing."

"Believe me Private, you do _not_ weigh _nothing_." Damon laughed.

Suddenly, David's laughter turned into a jostling sob.

Damon blinked several times. He shouldn't have been so calm. He was tired, he was carrying a man without a leg, on his back, through the mud. Why was he able to stay so calm in the midst of all the chaos around him? Was he so tired that he just didn't care?

The first thought that came to his mind was: _Pull it together, David. _

"What is it, Private?" Damon said coldly.

"I can't feel my leg...I can't feel...it's...it's gone..._it's actually gone_."

Damon was suddenly furious. Couldn't David see he was just as tired as anyone could be? Couldn't he see Damon was covered in mud, and on the verge of collapsing? Couldn't David White see he wasn't in the mood for complaints?

"Alright, Private sit down," Damon set him down, rather roughly, onto a slab of mud that had eroded into a chair.

_I can't smell his blood. It should be pouring out of him like a waterfall but it's not..._

"That missing leg of yours," Damon pointed to where the leg used to be, "The way you lost it, David, probably saved your life. You want to know why? It was burned off. That burn sealed the wound up. So you won't die. There are men dying in agony from mustard gas and bullets. You will live. So quit griping. I know it hurts but I can't carry you to the hospital tent if you're doubling your weight by crying, got it?"

"Yes...I understand."

"Good. Now let's go."

In truth, Damon had no idea if the burn had sealed up the wound, he had no way of knowing what would happen to David White. He just knew the only way to keep the man calm was to give him hope, even if it was false and almost laughable.

Damon ran as best he could through the mud. His speed was very fast-for a human. The mud was in his boots, was on his face, under his nails. The mud was almost a part of him, it seemed. Damon never felt so unclean-and guilty. He couldn't be killed, this man on his back could. Who was he to complain?

"So, David? Have a girl back home?"

"Yeah. Pearl. She and I married before I set out overseas. What about you? Have anyone back home?"

"Nope. If I did, I wouldn't be here for two years." Damon chuckled.

"So no kids then?"

"No kids. Not yet-assuming I make it out of here, that is."

"You will, David, you will-" Damon gasped and coughed.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, fine. Just a cough. I'll be fine."

_Just the damn mustard gas, that's all. No big deal! Nearly there, nearly there. _

Ten minutes later, Damon could see a large, grotesque, muddy, red cross in the distance.

"We're nearly there David. Nearly there…."

Damon waited for a response. Silence.

"David? You still with me buddy?" Damon's pace quickened.

"...Yeah…" The voice was slurred and muffled by other sounds. The ringing was still in Damon's ears but it was nearly gone.

Then Damon paused. Dripping onto his shoulder...was blood.

_Oh no. Oh Christ in Heaven, no. You do not get to die on me after I've taken you, on my back, through the mud! _

Damon laughed. He was angry. So angry, in fact, that he felt like picking off ever German he could. This couldn't be happening. There was no point to this war, to this tragedy, to this waste of life.

_We're in trenches for God's sake! We are getting nowhere! People are dying! Dying! Needlessly! _

Damon did in fact get David White to the tent, and a nurse later informed him that he would survive.

No sooner had Damon sat down, finally able to rest his feet, when he heard someone barking orders at some poor bastard several yards away from him.

_Jesus, pal, you're giving me a headache with all that screaming, and the poor bastard you're screaming at is about to have heart attack. _

Damon listened and groaned.

_Just my luck, just as the fighting dies down., another battle is being fought behind our lines. _

Damon fiddled with his dog tags but couldn't stop the rage that was building up inside him as he listened to the conversation.

"It's your duty as a soldier to go out there and serve our country! If you don't go out there, you're a damn coward and you deserve to die a coward's death!"

"Sir, I'm sorry...I just can't...I can't go back out there! I'll go insane if I do!"

"That's not an excuse! If you can shoot a gun, you can and will go out there and shoot as many Germans as I tell you to!"

Damon opened his eyes and looked at the man who was visibly shaking. Shaking in the hands. Just like he did in 1864 after he'd fought in Civil War.

Damon pushed himself up and sighed.

"Hey, why don't you leave the poor bastard alone. He's tired, we all are and-"

"Did I ask for your opinion private?" The large man screamed.

"No, sir but-" Damon was interrupted and bit his lip. This guy was asking for it.

"But what private?"

Damon could tell by the man's clothing that he technically Damon's superior even though he'd never seen him before.

"He's not a coward, sir. He's just tired like the rest of us-"

"Doesn't matter! If he can stand, he can shoot a gun and if he can shoot a gun-"

"He can kill Germans I know but he's barely able to-"

"Did you just interrupt me private?"

Damon clenched his teeth and formed a fist. He couldn't just flat out hit a superior officer, even if he deserved it.

"Yes, sir."

"Drop and give me fifty, now!"

Damon did as he said, but not because he respected the man's authority. Damon did it because had he not been given something to do, he would've beaten the man to death.

"...Twenty-five! Twenty-six!"

Then Damon did something he shouldn't have. He spit on the man's boots in the middle of his fortieth push up.

There was no one around, just the superior, the shaking man, and private Damon Crowley.

"Why you son of bitch!"

And because there was no one around the man kicked Damon in the ribs.

Damon cried out in pain but was soon up on his feet. Damon punched the man square in the jaw, knocking him on to the muddy ground.

The man charged at Damon and grabbed a gun. Damon's eyes grew wide and saw a murderous look in the man's eyes. Instead of killing him with it, the man hit Damon in the head with the butt of the gun, and then kicked him once more in the ribs.

"You ever do anything like that ever again, private…" The man grabbed Damon's tags, "Crowley, and I'll kill you. We clear?"

"Crystal." Damon was seething.

The man walked away, and the private he'd originally been abusing, helped Damon up.

"Hey, thanks. You have no idea how grateful I am. I just...I can't go back out there. I just _can't_."

"It's ok….I understand." Damon gave the guy a faint smile.

"But boy, the look on his face when you hit him in the jaw!" The man laughed and Damon found himself laughing too, although it hurt to.

"I'm Damon."

"I'm Andy Clemms, it's a pleasure."

"Same to you. Hey, Andy, do you know where I can get some water before I head back out?"

"Head back out? Things have just calmed down."

"I know...I want to help get wounded back to camp."

"Yeah, yeah sure. Over there. I've...I've got to go."

"Go? Go where?" Then Damon put two and two together.

"Andy you can't just run. You'll get shot if you do..."

"But I can't stay here."

"Okay. Andy how old are you?"

"What?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

Damon raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Ok...Seventeen."

Damon looked up at the grey sky.

_This is why I went to war in 1864. I didn't want my brother to be crushed by war…._

"I get it-why you lied. You wanted to serve your country, and you have. You've served as best you can. But you're right, you can't stay here, but you _can't_ run either…."

"This is gonna hurt."

"What?"

Damon shot Andy in the foot.

Andy screamed. Andy's whole face, his eyes, were alive with panic and a fear Damon had only seen in children. A fear that screamed: Why me! This isn't fair!

"What the hell! What are you doing?!" Damon watched the boy's eyes go from fear and panic to anger and confusion.

"The only way you can get out of here without dishonorable discharge or a bullet in your skull for cowardice is if you're injured. No one can blame you for being shot in the line of duty."

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you. What are you doing-"

Damon cut his wrist and gave Andy his blood.

"Forget I gave you my blood. Have a good life in America….and face your demons."

Damon lead Andy Clemm to the hospital tent.

Two days passed. He'd saved two people in one day, that felt good. It rained, and continued to rain so that the mud was now passed his ankles. He still had not fed.

Another grenade.

Ringing.

This time, his breaths were shallow, and Damon stumbled back into the blood red haze and dark screams. Damon felt as if he had the world on his shoulders.

_This is not my job. How is it I have taken on the responsibilities of an angelwhen I should be killing Germans? _

The ringing wasn't going away and he looked at a crying man covered in blood.

"Kill me. Please! Kill me! Please! Please! Just kill me…"

Damon stared at the man in an odd, cold, harsh daze. He simply gazed in wonder and confusion.

_Humans are odd. Why would anyone beg to die? Why should anyone beg to die? This man should should come home to a white picket fence, kids playing in the yard, and a wife ready to fix him a drink by hearth in the living room. He shouldn't be begging for death in the mud like a dog. This is what war does to us. It makes us all angels of death to our fellow man. _

Damon's hands began to shake uncontrollably, as they did in 1864. And he still stared. For twelve seconds the man writhed, sobbed, begged, and finally died with a smile on his face. A piece of shrapnel had been lodged in the man's shoulder. He'd bled out. There was nothing he could hae done to save the man. Nothing he wouldn't have regretted doing.

_I could've turned him. Why didn't I? _

Damon was suddenly aware that his hands were shaking and whispered, "Oh look. It's happening. Agian. I've been waiting for it. At least now I'm not the only one. They're calling it shellshock…." Damon began to laugh faintly.

"It wasn't enough...I killed him...It didn't save him…." Damon remembered the nurse telling him Andrew B. Clemm died after he'd been shot in the foot from blood loss.

Then Damon heard that familiar sound through the gunfire, the screaming, the ringing. The sound of a camera. It always came shortly behind the chaos because people needed to know. They needed to know what happened at war. But as Damon thought about the camera, it's purpose seemed to be sadistic and twisted. The camera always appeared like buzzards to claim a corpse, like a leech that sucked every last drop and soul out a person, and then some.

Then Damon wondered: What was the point? People would never be able to comprehend what they saw in videos or photographs, because it was just simply unimaginable. People couldn't take in the 1800's. After the war, all photos and evidence that had once signified battles fought and won, that had once brought pride to people, sickened them. All of it, all the evidence burned or left to rot, all the buzzards and grackles poached.

_And who would want to see pictures of men fighting each other from opposite sides of holes in the ground, killing each other, but gaining no land or prize? Who would want to see evidence of a battle that was only won depending on which side lost more people? These poor, poor, people. _

The camera was upon him, he never liked being in front of a camera, lest he be recognized years later, but now there was no avoiding it. He'd avoided it for two years. But now, he was tired. He'd seen so much death in two years. So much so that he was knew it was enough to leave him broken for the rest of life. It was a mistake to think going to war would be easier as a vampire, that he'd be of more use if he couldn't be killed. This war had managed make him feel like an outsider among good men, a survivor that did not deserve to live. And yet it had managed to make him feel human again.

Damon realized that the aching in his bones from lack of sleep, and the growing hunger, was his way of trying to be one with these good men. But it had not worked. He'd most likely made things worse. The man with the shrapnel in his shoulder did not need a cold, heartless leech who could not identify with his pain, he needed someone who was able to understand and feel as he did. And that was not Damon. After what this war had done to him, it never would be. Because the moment Damon wished that a dying man would just die and get it over with, so he wouldn't have to watch, was the moment he no longer belonged in the presence of good men at all because he had no good intent.

Damon stared at the man with the shrapnel in his shoulder. His eyes were open, blood leaked from either side of his mouth, he was covered in dirt and mud. And all Damon could do was take it in, glad that he no longer had to feel guilty for feeling disgust and pity over how the man died, and for feeling relief that it was not he who had died.

The camera captured this:

A living, breathing, a man staring at another man. A dead man caked in blood and dirt, with a piece of shrapnel grotesquely sticking out of his shoulder like nails on a cross. The breathing man did not react the camera's appearance or the sound gunfire. He simply stared and shook. Then he looked at the camera and back at the dead man. His eyes rolled into the back of his skull and he collapsed into the mud.

The similarities the camera caught between the two men:

The dead man was on the ground. The breathing man fell to the ground as well. The dead man's eyes gazed coldly up at the grey sky, just as the living man had gazed at the dead man with the same cold wonder. Both seemed to gaze coldly at each other.

The man filming this spectacle dropped the camera in the mud and called out to others to help him get Private Damon Crowley to a doctor. Damon would never fully understand why he kept staring at the dead man. Doctors said he was malnourished and dehydrated, and he could not shoot a gun because of the tremors in his hands, for which they had no explanation.

Damon found out years later that the footage from the camera was used in a documentary about the effects of World War I on its veterans and soldiers. Damon also realized, to his relief, that he was virtually unrecognizable because his face covered in dirt, and the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, looked nothing like him.


End file.
